So I set out to write one- in several movements. It’s not going to be your standard requiem…no kyrie…

And I have a serious obsession with woodwinds, I admit that right upfront. I might be alone with my adoration of the piccolo flute and the oboe- but oh well…

Requiem Narrator and Solo Voice leading through the stage production- based on the painting "Stardust" by Patrick Whelan, Whelan Galleries, no copyright infringement is intended, all pictures are property of their respective owners

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No animal was harmed in the making of this picture, much to the chagrin of my cat whose instincts
were on fire. I escorted the turtle off the premises and into safety toward the nearby river.

I happen to live in the path of the tornadoes that tore through parts of Oklahoma on May 24th. And it happened to be one that took at least 10 lives.

And while Oklahomans are familiar with tornadoes- last Tuesday brought new respect to the sheer destructive power of a tornado. It’s been a while that even tornado experienced Oklahomans had to deal with such a violent series of tornadoes grouped together that closely.

It was an uneasy afternoon, following days of hefty rainfall, each thunderstorm growing more powerful than the previous one, hail the size of golf balls and grapefruits in some parts. We had followed the forecasts, I had our shelter stocked with food, shoes and the very few material possessions I consider irreplaceable.

And then the sirens went off.
I have heard the very same sirens every Saturday, noontime, every week. Being tested.
But how eerie to hear the sirens on a day that is not a Saturday, not a test.

I gathered child and pets, getting into our shelter. Huge thunder bolts coming down literally in front of us, dark skies, debris flying around- the thunder storm alone could have inspired Joseph Haydn to write a symphony, a mighty oratorio.

We sat in our shelter, listening to the howling, we felt the rest of the house shaking above us from the thunderstorms alone. Checking on the path of a tornado that formed 2 streets over from my house. Lights flickered, sporadic internet connection. Singing to my son, counting cheerios and imaginary sheep to a sleepy child, while trying to listen to the emergency radio announcements, comparing the audible news to the tiny map on my blackberry.

And then the tornado changed it’s path, took a left, away from us. We were three minutes away from being hit by tornado number 2, the most devastating one of that day.

Today, on Friday, my son woke me by throwing a stuffed animal at me- a turtle. He calls it Mami’s turtle.
My mother bought this stuffed animals many years ago when she was pregnant with me.
I did the same for my son, waddling through an Ikea, picking up a stuffed animal in the shape of a turtle.

our respective turtles

And then I wept. For the pregnant woman and her husband a few short miles from me in Piedmont who lost 2 sons during the same tornado that suddenly changed course and took their children.

I cried, hugged my little one, thankful that he can throw stuffed animals at me.

While I wept into my cup of coffee, I walked by a window, looking away and looking back.
What did I see crawling through the lawn? A turtle.

A turtle, in China and Japan revered as the totem of protection, longevity- and motherhood.

Native American Indians revere the turtle as the immortal mother who is determined to quietly and silently carry the heavy burden of humankind upon her thick shell.

I am surrounded by many Native American Indian tribes in these lands. I often stand at a traffic light, glancing over, to discover another license plate. Each tribe has their own license plate.

And so I asked my son if he wanted see a real turtle.
The real, living and breathing symbol of protection, longevity and creation that was slowly pushing itself through the grass.

I grabbed the camera, admired the turtle and we gave thanks to Gaia herself.

Never again will I look at a turtle the with the same eyes.

Egyptian goddess meets Indian mother

_________________________________________________________________

Sending peace and a prayer to the victims of the tornado series of 5/24/2011.

•Miranda Nycole Bishard, 16, of Helena

•Austin Hall, 22, of Enid

•Terry Peoples, 50, of Woodward

•Don Wesley Krug, 71, of Hooker

•Joan Krug, 67, of Hooker

•Sharon Dodd, 58, of Cashion

•Billy Leeper, 64, of Cashion

•Ryan Hamil, 3, of Piedmont

•Cole Hamil, 15 months, of Piedmont

•Laron Short, 24, of Chickasha

The Hamil family not only lost 2 children, with a third one still being in critical condition- they also lost their home.

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I’m going to add a category here … because ever since my hand wrote the first letter, I had a rather strong affinity for fountain pens. Not entirely sure how I ended up with a small collection.
I made first forays into the world of writing with a fountain pen= and ink staining your fingers. No rollerball pens, no pencils. Fountain pens.

My penmanship is horrific and I remember the days of being a left handed person, being drilled by teachers to use the right hand, yet the love of ink on paper remained.

Something about the process of ink being put on paper- maybe some of us used to be those people carving things in stone- so maybe many lifetimes later we still appreciate ink on paper? Who knows.
I often wonder why some love ink so much.

While my eyes may roll in delight, dreaming about the perfect Mac- nothing beats that conversation you follow with your hand, your pen.

A poem written on shiny pages, inviting you to fill the pages.
Do you remember receiving a handwritten letter by your grandparents, do you remember writing a love letter that would make you say, Rumi, Shakespeare and Neruda- move over, for you have not seen passion yet?
Do you remember the most important letter you might have written?

See, pens ink and paper do just that to me.
I love ink stained blotters, ink stained fingers, leather pen holders and the hunt for decent paper. They are the physical tools that help me to sit, dream, waste time and paper and forget it all, simply writing, whatever wants to be written.

And so I chose a seemingly cheap pen to start these thoughts. Literacy and writing used to be the elusive knowledge of a very few. You were literate, you knew how to write- chances were, you were the keeper of knowledge.
Things changed- literacy rates grew, people wrote. Mass production of paper, beautiful hand crafted glass dip pens a thing of the past. (I must have spent some serious time at some court with my love for ink, pens and perfumes)
And only now the very act of writing with one’s hand seems to die out yet again- being a cherished rarity. Granted, Europe, Australia and North America differ much from Asia- where fountain pens remain an every day tool.

The Wing Sung is not your costly Pelikan, make no mistake about it- but what a wonderfully pleasant shock to write with it.

Japan, China and Germany all have their very own specific affordable writing instruments- and I love reading up on the companies producing these pens.
Apparently Wing Sun pens have not even been produced for a number of years- with With Sung having been bought up by the larger company Hero- or so internet folklore says.

Either way these pens float about the internet on plenty of sites- and I literally got mine to reach the minimum order limit- because I was buying a nib for one of my wonderful Pelikan pens, the German Nirvana of Pens. If you’re lucky, you should pay next to nothing.

At first glance- the impression of simple will overcome you- and the cap doesn’t exactly help anything. Not visually, nor will it keep the nib from drying out.
The pen is a so called aerometric filler- very similar to an eye dropper. Easy. Most people think of ink bottles as an annoying and messy relict of the past- I can’t get enough of them. But to those of us who do spent a few hours writing until we smear the pages- bottled ink proves to beat gel point pens or cartridges. Bottled ink makes sense in every way- financially, environmentally.
Refill your pen just a few times- you might understand why those monks painstakingly filled those volumes, one by one, by hand. You start to appreciate the service done to mankind to assemble volume after volume.

When you buy a Wing Sung in a fine nib- you get a fine nib. You’ll learn the difference between even a cheap Chinese fine- and a European fine nib.
In 99% the European nib will be considerably wider as its Asian counterpart, rooted in different writing requirements.

The Wing Sung lays days down what aficionados lovingly call a wet line. A wet writer and a fine nib do not have to exclude one another. Once that ink starts flowing it flowed reliably for me, no sudden rushes, no skipping.
I actually do write left and- and right handed. Either way this little every day workhorse was a pleasure to hold.
It seems to hold a decent amount of ink, as far as I could tell after a few hours of writing.

Modeled after a the legendary American Parker 51- this little clone does the job. I was able to fill more than 10 pages pages without tiring- and that is why a fountain pen beats those papermate things you’ll encounter everywhere.

Your regular pen requires a lot of pressure- one literally has to push the ink into the paper- while a fountain pen is designed to glide over the paper. A decent fountain pen will literally let you write for hours, and I simply cannot do that with anything but a fountain pen.

Granted, for longer sittings I will always reach for my Pelikan- but the Wing Sung surprised me pleasantly. A decent everyday writer.

What can I tell you that you don’t know already?
What can you tell me
To share with me
To bridge this huge ocean?
What question can a lover ask
That no lover of Mankind
Hasn’t asked me before?

We have asked all the questions.
Do you know how to answer, are you seeking a question?

What else to do but to swim in the ocean.
Help me in drowning, for you seem like an expert.
Lend me your hand and we’ll go drowning together.
At least it takes courage to go drowning together-
Anybody could just go poison those pigeons in the park.

Watch not but the daytime, that’s just barely facade.
The brave people go swimming in the dark.

What are you watching me in sheer delight
When I don’t have the answers.
Did I not hear the question, did I miss all the answers
When someone dispensed them like candy.

Oh, I bet I was drowning
With a companion who just LOVES him some drowning.
Rather fearless in drowning
Arms wildly flailing, some call that dancing.